


Hold You Close And Pray

by ForbiddenToast



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForbiddenToast/pseuds/ForbiddenToast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s day five now, Joe has Patrick’s glasses shaking in his hand and the chance that Patrick is still breathing, never mind unharmed, is so small it’s microscopic that Pete figures it's probably his turn to cry like everyone else had on day two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold You Close And Pray

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted a Walking Dead AU and sorry this is seriously terrible.  
> Though in case anybody isn't familiar with the TV show 'walker' is basically another word for a zombie.
> 
> Also the title's from the Muse song Falling Away With You.

“They’re Patrick’s.”

It’s as if all the air has been sucked straight from Pete’s lungs as his world focuses on the small object in Joe’s hands, like it was going to be the last thing he seen before he suffocated and collapsed on the tiled floor.

His mouth’s suddenly dry and he thinks faintly that the dust is getting caught in his throat as he glares at the glasses Joe’s just found on the floor. Joe’s hand is also starting to blur, along with the rest of the world and the only thing Pete can see clearly are the innocent little glasses. They’re black, thick rimmed and caked in the dirt and dust that invades every nook and cranny of the hospital they’re in but they’re unmistakeably _his._

A hand lands itself carefully on Pete’s shoulder as he continues to drink in the sight, mind racing. And at a guess he thinks its Andy; telling him that’s there’s still hope and Patrick’s still alive and they’ll just have to keep looking at him.

Except Patrick’s not alive is he? The proof’s glaring back at Pete smugly, as if the world is flaunting it in Pete’s face about how it finally got one over on him.

During the week Pete had been so hopeful. Hadn’t let himself drown in his head and quickly squashed any negative thoughts or _what ifs_ concerning Patrick. Pete had refused point blank to break down and let the grief and anger finally claim him, _he couldn’t_ – Patrick had probably been counting on him and the small group mumbling behind him most defiantly were.

Now though, Pete doesn’t care if the wide-eyed group behind him, Joe or Andy seen him ball his fists up and dig his nails into his palm. Everybody else had cried for the beloved strawberry blonde the second day he was missing, even Andy (who Pete had never seen cry) had misty eyes and was constantly clinging onto Joe’s arm. As if to remind himself that Joe was still here and the monsters hadn’t got him too.

It’s day five now though, and Joe has Patrick’s glasses shaking in his hand and the chance that Patrick is still breathing, never mind unharmed, is so small it’s microscopic.

Blinking angry tears out of his eyes, Pete quickly grabs the offending glasses out of Joe’s hand and tears up the closest corridor he can get to. Away from the group and all their sympathy and optimism and not caring if one of those _things_ was around the next corner he flung himself around – at this point Pete would actually embrace a walker’s bite. It would serve him right for not looking for Patrick harder, for not having his back like he fucking _promised._

He can faintly hear Andy’s voice telling the group to stay away, to give him some space and go help Matt or something barricade one of the windows were all the walkers got in, instead of huddling in their now pointless search group. Which is good, because Pete isn’t sure if he’d be able to listen to anybody’s soothing words without him punching them.

Because they don’t understand. They don’t understand what Pete’s just fucking lost – sure, everybody’s lost somebody by this point but this is _Patrick._ Patrick who saved Pete’s life so many times (even before the outbreak) that he thought maybe the universe would’ve gave his _best friend_ a free pass for a while because he’s – was – that fucking golden.

Obviously the universe doesn’t work like that though, hence Pete stalking up random corridors and turning around random corners. Hoping that if he runs far enough, he’ll run away from the fact that his best friend is dead.

 If it did work like that Patrick would have also probably lived until two hundred with the amount of bargaining Pete’s been doing the past four days.

Clenching his jaw at the scream he wants to make at that, Pete turns to go down another corridor, then turns again and again until he’s lost any recollection of what part of the hospital he’s in.

It isn’t fair. Patrick was the last good thing in the world and Pete let him slip through his fingers, he’d fucked up again…only this time Patrick wasn’t there to quickly fix it and shout at him to “not fucking do that again.”

He should’ve looked for him more, should’ve went looking for him at night while the others were sleeping; shouting and scream his name until his voice went hoarse. He should’ve grabbed his arm that night and pulled him out of that room and fucking _stayed with him_ instead of going back in for the others like Patrick had suggested.

Pete should’ve just grabbed Patrick and got the hell out of there and let Patrick struggle and scream in his arms as he begged for him to go back to help the others because that’s the kind of thing Patrick would’ve done if he’d tried.

Patrick wouldn’t have left Pete behind an old reception desk with a sprained ankle to go back for Sam, who was screaming at the top of her lungs – even if Pete had of begged like Patrick had – and now Pete’s got to deal with the consequences of it and the fact Patrick _was_ gone and it _was_ all his fault.

But it had been madness, the break in, and Pete hadn’t of known what he was meant to do. His mind was focused on getting out, of getting Patrick out and going back for the others and he’d panicked. He didn’t want to leave the poor girl to be eaten alive and he had thought Patrick would’ve been okay behind the desk for all the five minutes he was gone.

 _Stupid._ He thinks bitterly as he storms further into the depths of the hospital and feels the beginning of angry tear sliding down his face. _You stupid, stupid, stupid idiot!_

Pete finally comes back to his senses when he hits the floor with a thump and leans against one of the white walls that’s closing in on him. He has no idea where he is now, doesn’t want to know where he is.

He just wants to be wherever Patrick is really.

A quick once over of the corridor doesn’t help him calm down. There’s dirt everywhere. Disregarded medical supplies and even a dead walker slumped in from of a door with a screwdriver in its skull and all Pete can think is _is that the one that killed him? Oh god it could be_.

The grip he has on the stupid glasses has also went white knuckled now as Pete struggles to get the stale air into his lungs like he needs it to. But all his mind can think about is Patrick’s stupid blue-green eyes that can’t make their mind up on what colour they want to be.

That’s also the exact moment where Pete’s fist collides with the ground, the tears start to fall properly and his mind spirals in a way it hasn’t in months, not since their last scare anyway. He thinks about all the things he should’ve done, should’ve said during their years of friendship. He should’ve bought Patrick that vinyl years back, he should’ve let him put that song on that album that’s probably covered in someone’s blood somewhere, he should’ve told Patrick how awesome he was more often and whispered things other than God awful jokes at night when they were still in a band.

He’s still giving the ground a beating when the thinks about the fucking _fear_ in Patrick’s eyes the night he went missing, the pleading look he gave Pete when he asked him to make sure Joe and Andy got out okay and the half-hearted shove he’d given him to get him to go back to the others. 

His hands are aching now, and Pete notices a patch of red on the floor when he hears a groan. It’s not very loud, a mumble at best, but it stops his knuckles from slamming into the floor again.

When he looks up, he sees the door the dead walker is blocking move slightly, followed by another groan and his mind barely thinks that it’s probably another trapped walker before he’s thinking about Patrick again and tearing his gaze back down to the now blood covered glasses in his clenched fist.

He should’ve looked harder. _Punch._

He shouldn’t have left him. _Another punch._

He should’ve fucking maned up and kissed him, told him how fucking adorable he looks when he wakes up. He should’ve answered the questions about lyrics honestly and should’ve told him how he fucking _felt –_ it’s not like that would’ve scared Patrick away. Especially not in the world they live in now.

Patrick probably would’ve _apologized_ for not returning Pete’s feelings in full sentiment, felt guilty about it and tried to cheer Pete up about it for the rest of their lives because that’s the type of person he was. Selfless.

Pete’s thoughts are interrupted for a second time when there’s another groan by the thing behind the door and another useless shove at it. Though just by looking at it, Pete can tell it won’t open. The dead body would be too heavy for a walker to be able to move.

The world should let him grieve in peace. At least give him that fucking privilege to treasure Patrick’s memory but the thing behind the door just won’t shut up.

It only takes it to groan one more time and the door to budge slightly for Pete to snap properly. Like everything leading up to it this had been one soul destroying build up for Pete Wentz’s Proper Mental Breakdown. And before he knows what he’s doing, he’s kicking at the stupid door.

There’s a shooting pain spiking up his ankle but he doesn’t care, all he can think about is how lonely the world is now and how it should have been Pete that was killed and his ankle is killing him and he kind of wants it too.

Soon his bloody fist joins in as well, sending a glorious wave of pain over his knuckles and he thinks he hears a crack in between his own sobs but he can’t be sure.

He just wants to be where ever Patrick is.

If there truly an afterlife, Pete’s just praying that his friend is there and not walking the hospital’s abandoned corridors in a dead body or in the stomach of a monster’s body.

The thing groans again just as Pete gives it a last kick and is storming up the corridor in a fit of rage towards Joe and the other’s when he hears it. It’s so quiet, and weak that he’s sure he’s imagining it. His brain playing another cruel joke on him but it makes him stop regardless.

_“ete…”_

Pete’s never spun around so much in his life, and he’s a little surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash when he says “Who’s there?” The rational part of his brain’s telling him it’s probably Joe or Andy, coming to get him since its getting dark but another part of him is getting hopeful – which is dangerous and he has to be sure.

The only reply his question gets is another pained noise and the door trying to open again and then the anger starts bubbling up again. Stupid. It was just the fucking walker behind the door.

And the fucking thing keeps banging at the door, and Pete feels an old urge beginning to tingle at his fingertips and he wants to destroy something. He needs to – or he’ll do something stupid when he goes back to the group.

Then the walker pushes at the door again and all Pete sees is red. Because how dare that, that _thing_ give him hope like that. How fucking dare it try to mess with the ruins that is Pete’s world.

The first thing he does is pull the bloody screwdriver out of the dead walker by his feet, then he sends it flying across the hallway with the force of him dragging it away and then he’s ripping the door open, raising the screwdriver only to see—

Nothing. No gruesome, dead monster or unfortunate person who met their end in the storage closet. All he sees is bleach, old mops, brooms and _oh God._

The screwdriver tumbles to the ground with a clang and Pete’s pretty sure his heart stops the moment he sees him. All pale skin, blood stained hair and fucking _stubble_ and he’s looking up at him with dull looking eyes and Christ, _the blood._

Before he even knows it, Pete’s on his knees and bringing a shaky hand up to touch Patrick’s clammy cheek – just to make sure this is real –  and marvelling in the fact he’s touching him, the fact _he’s_ _alive_ and that fact Patrick is looking at him and smiling

“Patrick,” He breathes and swallows around the huge lump lodged in his throat. “Patrick.”

He’s so in awe, so in shock that he almost misses Patrick’s whisper of “Hey Pete.” Before he’s pulling him into a hug and starts sobbing into Patrick’s shaking shoulder as the other man tries to stop his own tears of relief.

\--

It becomes apparent to Pete fairly quickly that Patrick is in no position to walk back to the group’s part of the hospital even if, for the most part, he’s fine. The blonde can barely speak without coughing because of the dry pull of his parched throat, never mind try and coordinate enough strength to walk back through the maze of corridors and hallways. And Pete can only imagine what being slumped in a storage closet full of dust has done to his lungs and back over the past few days.

And after their fairly emotional reunion mumbled into Patrick’s sweat damp neck, mostly full of variations of Patrick’s name, saying sorry, asking if he was hurt in anyway and saying sorry again Pete decides the only way to get Patrick back, without hurting or leaving him, is to carry him. Despite Patrick’s stubborn protests that he c _an_ walk, regardless of the spraint ankle and “I’m fine Pete – Pete. The blood isn’t even mine, listen. Pete –“

However by that point Pete is either not listening, or simply doesn’t care that Patrick is perfectly capable of hobbling back, and simply bends down to hook his arms under his knees and back and lifts him up. Which in turn, earns him a pained noise from Patrick; cutting of another protest that he is _not_ a damsel in distress that needs to be carried to safety _thank you very much_.

“I know you’re not,” Pete grunts out as he straightens his back, hopefully Pete can get them both back before his arms give out. “But you’re hurt so shut it.”

Maybe it’s the relief of being found, or the fact that Pete looks fucking terrible and he wants to get back to the others that he finds himself saying “Fine.” And looping his arms around Pete’s neck to try and help slightly. Even if his back does burn at the action. Christ his spine must hate him for subjecting it to being bent for the best part of a week.

And with that Pete gets walking and all Patrick can do is cling on and marvel at the fact _he’s alive_ after thinking while trapped in a storage closet  by a walker that he’d killed that Pete could’ve died after going back in for the others. That Pete’s fucking body could’ve be walking the halls aimlessly until it eventually came across him, defenceless, and make a meal out of him and Patrick wouldn’t have the energy to kill him or the heart to because at the end of the day he’d still be killing what was left of _Pete_.

To say Patrick had been thinking a lot the past few days would’ve been an understatement.

Though now, all Patrick can think about was how damn tired he is because he couldn’t risk sleeping much over the past few days and how much he’s missed Pete’s stupid smile and overgrown hair that’s border lining a mullet which he can just about reach from this positon.

He’s just so fucking glad he’s safe and tired that he doesn’t realize Pete’s said something until he notices the panic edging into that voice.

“Hmm?”  He hums, looking up to see big brown eyes staring down at him.

“You sure you’re okay?” Pete asks and turns around another corner towards the others. “You keep zoning out.”

“’m just tired, that’s all.” He reassures and gives what he hopes is an equally reassuring smile. “Thanks again though.” He adds because without Pete, Patrick probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer in that room.

 The flare of hope and joy when he’d heard sobbing and slamming in the corridor, meters away from where he was was indescribable. And when he shoved the door open slightly to see _Pete_ huddled across from him he’d nearly choked on the stale air. He was alive, he was alive and right there and he just needed him to get to open the door. Patrick had thought he was the only one that survived after hobbling away from a walker who’d spotted him hiding behind the reception desk, thought that _Pete_ had died after saving his sorry ass like he always did.

Before he knows it, his eyes are starting to droop at an alarming rate and the warmth and comfort of Pete after being alone so long overwhelms him and his body decides it’s time for some well needed rest.

\--

When Patrick comes to he’s in the room he appointed his and Pete’s when their little group began to occupy the hospital. They’ve also stopped moving and he’s in his bed, wrapped up in blankets and someone’s strong arms; as if whoever it is doesn’t want to let go.

To be honest with himself, he doesn’t want them to let go.

There’s also a warm hand carding itself through his hair in a slow, lazy pattern that almost makes him want to drift off again. Sleep and soak up the little piece of normality left in the world now that he can, without having to worry about a walker stumbling across him in his sleep or worrying about his friends being dead like he thought they were.

So that’s what he does, he shuffles closer and breathes. He’s safe now, with people.

His tired mind is also quick to catch onto the fact that he’s not wearing the sticky and disgusting clothes Pete found him in earlier. Instead his blood splattered t-shirt has been swapped for a big grey one and his disgusting jeans have been substituted with comfortable sweats and he realizes that oh, Pete must’ve changed him when he was out.

The man in question has also taken the liberty of keeping him tucked close as he’s still huddled in Pete’s chest and his face is pushed into his neck as if shielding him from the world.

Humming contently in the back of his throat Patrick tries not to think about how his heart swells at that thought.

They stay like that for a while. Quiet and peaceful and just overall thankful that the other person next to them is alive and well. Pete’s also trying to find the right words to say, to explain to Patrick everything that’s been running through his mind for the last few days and Patrick’s trying not to focus on how nice Pete’s hand in his hair feels.

Patrick’s just considering going back to sleep, into that blissful place he’d missed during his frightful five days when Pete decides it’s time for him to wake up. For some unknown reason.

“Hey Patrick?” He asks, shaking the blonde’s shoulder to rouse him from the sleep he isn’t even in. “Patrick?”

“What?” Comes the sleepy reply that makes hot breath ghost over Pete’s neck and Pete nearly laughs at it. God, he’s so glad Patrick’s safe.

“What if—“ he starts and then stops, as if deep in thought and even in Patrick’s dehydrated, tired mind he can tell Pete’s either going to say something meaningful or suggest something stupid so he lifts his head out from its warm sanctuary and meets Pete’s eyes.

And suddenly, that twitchy feeling from earlier is back at Pete’s fingertips, his heart and his toes which start wriggling at the end of the bed because Patrick’s squinting at him and giving him an encouraging lop-sided smile and all he can think is _fuck it._

Because of the last five days, especially with all the emotions Pete’s been subjected to just today, Pete decides life is too short and goes for it and kisses Patrick Stump only an hour after he convinced himself the wonderful man was dead. 

And Pete’s pretty sure he’s the one who’s suddenly died, because he’s in heaven and not in the walker infested world. Because Patrick is kissing back and grabbing his hair and, _oh, Patrick’s really okay with this._

Slipping a hand underneath the spare t-shirt he found for Patrick earlier, Pete tries to give back as good as he’s getting. It’s a little messy, rushed and desperate as both of them are too overwhelmed from everything that’s happened. He’s trying to be gentle, honest, Patrick’s back must still be pretty painful but when his hand slides to the small of Patrick’s back and stays there, he’s pretty sure the shudder he gets back from it isn’t pain.

When they finally do break apart, breathless and smiling, Pete barely has the time to admire the red flush on Patrick’s face or the breath to say “Patrick I—“ Before the beautiful blonde is pulling him back in again and destroying him with that talented mouth.

“Yeah,” Patrick pants afterwards hair sticking up everywhere, dark blue-green eyes that still can’t decide what colour they want to be and reading Pete’s mind like he’s always been able to “Me - I mean you - too.”

They’ll talk about it later, between tearful confessions and clingy hands that refuse to let go now the other person is safe and in their arms but for now all Pete needs to focus on is making up for some serious lost time and maybe getting Patrick some food and a mint.

Because the world may be practically over and filled with the dead but Pete’s world is squirming in his lap and he won’t be letting go of it anytime soon and with Patrick grabbing onto his hair and tugging at it like that Pete doesn't want to be let go of anytime soon either .


End file.
